


Petrichor

by Emphyrio



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: M/M, Morning After
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-28
Updated: 2018-02-28
Packaged: 2019-03-25 01:50:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13823937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emphyrio/pseuds/Emphyrio
Summary: Faced with decisions of the previous night, Spock begins to doubt himself.





	Petrichor

Spock awoke wrapped in a fluffy Starfleet-issue comforter, fingertips numb from cold and a warm, sweaty pressure against his back. His eyes adjusted to the dim light and a leaden weight settled in his stomach as he began to recognize the surroundings. The circuits in his brain fizzled and sputtered to life. As sparks frantically jumped to connect the disparate pieces of information, the pressure against his back shifted and the warmth pulled away. Breath quickening, Spock realized that the reason for the odd chilliness of his skin despite the film of sweat coating his back was because he was shirtless. Indeed, a quick assessment of his situation revealed that the entirety of his uniform lay discarded on the floor, a few feet away from the bed. Bracing himself against the sudden burst of frigid air, he threw aside the blanket. Spock stood, bare skin prickling from the cold, in his sleeping captain’s quarters.

There was a dull panic beating in the back of his head as he snatched up his clothes and started to pull them on. A crumpled gold shirt lay beside the pile, two and a half stripes glinting in the low light. Spock slipped his top over his head and was struck with a sudden memory, soft and faded and almost formless, of the shirt being pulled off him. And those perfect warm hands running over his chest and back. His own cold hands were there as well, following them, trying, trying to stop them?...no, trying to help them, finding the hem of the shirt and tugging…

Spock mentally shook himself and inhaled. At least now he had a uniform on, and the scene started to feel more normal. Not normal in any sense of the word, but more so. A pair of empty glasses on the bedside table caught his eye. They were stout and faceted, in the style of old Earth shots. Spock picked one up and sniffed it cautiously. A heady perfume rushed through his sinuses and filled his lungs. A caramel memory dripped down his consciousness; he could see a giddy smile, hear a warm chuckle. He felt soft, uncertain lips and tasted a bitter tongue against his own. 

He jerked the glass away from his face and set it down with unwarranted violence. Glancing around the room, he caught his own eyes in the wall mirror. Tentatively crossing to it, shivers running up his body every time his bare feet hit the floor, he laid his hands on the vanity and stared into his own gaunt reflection. His hair was disheveled and dark shadows sat under his deep brown eyes. His pink lipstick had been smeared off, leaving his lips their natural pale green. He clenched the table and lowered his head to hang between his tense shoulders. This felt—

No. No feeling. There was neither time nor reason for feeling. He could not afford it. Thoughts he could afford. Thoughts were rational and cold. Thoughts would allow him to escape the sweat his limbs were steeped in. Just concentrate on thinking. Thinking anything. Just as long as you’re thinking. If you’re thinking you’re not feeling.

Spock thought he was going to be sick. A thick bile was pushing its way up his throat as his stomach tried to expunge the rising memories of the previous night. Trying to control his breathing, he put a hand to his head and ran the long, thin fingers through his tangled hair. He felt the ghost of another hand, a warm and delicate hand, entwining itself through the same jet locks, disturbing their perfect symmetry. And he felt his own hands on the echo of another head, a gentle golden paradise of meticulously arranged strands. It was deeply cathartic to pry their quintessence apart, rending them loose and free. 

Spock wrenched his hand out of his hair, squeezing his eyes shut. He exhaled deeply, trying to keep his stomach out of his throat. Slowly opening his eyes, he noticed that his hand was still clenching the vanity, green veins bulging around stark white knuckles. He forced it to release its grip, but couldn’t stop it from forming a tight fist. Avoiding the eyes of the mirror, Spock turned around. The sleeping form on the bed behind him lay still, downy covers rising and falling gently. The blankets were pulled up so only a few tufts of tawny hair and the tips of four gracefully curled fingers were visible. Spock didn’t know if he wanted to stare at the bed forever or if he never wanted to see it again. 

Floating on the cold surrealism of the situation, Spock crossed to the vent by Kirk’s bed and knelt down so it was next to his face. The air was chilly against his damp skin, and he inhaled deeply and let it course through his nose and throat and fill his lungs with ice, cooling him from the inside out. Kirk had his vent set to release a specific concentration of Earth minerals, imitating the scent of damp ground under dense foliage. He had once described it as "the aftermath of rain." The petrichor had become familiar to Spock over time, and although it was not a scent he had grown up with like his captain had, it filled him with an odd longing, almost a nostalgia. Regardless, the air settled his stomach some, and the muted throbbing in his head was beginning to subside. He knew that if he looked for it, he could find residue of Jim’s mind somewhere in the corners of his own. He tried his hardest not to look. 

His brain was beginning to tick again, shaking off the memories that clung to it like tree sap; like toffee. Sticky and sweet and smothering. It would be so easy just to put his face up to one and inhale and let it drip through his lungs and coat his insides in sugar and choke him with its golden richness. And he wouldn’t have to breathe or think or remember anything but the syrupy bliss of the night and the warmth of another mind pressed up against his. But he didn’t inhale. Instead he pushed away the image of Jim—of Kirk—flashing that dangerous smile; of his burnished muscles and his sparkling emerald-flecked eyes and the radiant heat of his body and the smell of his hair and the taste of his breath. Spock pushed it down inside him and with every beat of his heart he felt a stabbing arctic pain that spiked outwards from his right side in jagged jolts of lightning. He forced himself to forget when he reached out and caressed that tantalizing mind and for a while their thoughts pulsed in tandem. Shivers danced up and down his spine and jumped between his ribs as he tried to keep himself from shaking.  

By the time Spock noticed that his ears were numb from cold, his mind contained nothing but a quiet echo of his own heartbeat. He stood, locking his knees to stabilize his long legs. Flexing his cramped fingers, he let his eyes drift across the downy white mountains of the bed. The captain would likely not be up for at least a few hours. Continuing to scan the room, he located his boots, leaning haphazardly against the wall. Moving purposefully, muscles tense and precise, Spock crossed to where they lay. He crouched down and began to pull them on, eyes locked on the empty space directly in front of him. His mind beat hollowly, his heartbeat reverberating around inside an empty chamber. The boots were on before he realized any time had passed. There was an odd sense of non-being, or even un-being; of his mind floating on a river of ice and his body a distant shape in the water. His senses were filtered through depths of isolation, and by the time they reached his conscious mind they were only pale echos of reality. He didn’t even realize he was standing until his vision spotted over from having risen too fast. Ignoring the faintness, he began to move away from the bed. He grabbed the cool metal bar at the edge of the partition as he passed through it. 

“And where do you think you’re going, mister?”

Spock stopped, hand suddenly sweaty around the metal rail. The blood his heart had been trying so hard to control flooded into his system as if a dam had been broken. Ribs shaking as his side thudded heavily, Spock turned around with lowered eyes. Pulse pounding in his ears, he dragged his vision upward to focus on the source of the voice. 

Jim Kirk sat with a warm, sleepy smile on the bed that Spock had pulled himself out of. His taut, well-cut muscles held the covers coyly around his chest as it rose and fell gently. Hazel eyes flashed teasingly green under ruffled amber hair. Stifling a yawn, Kirk stretched, allowing the blanket to fall enough to reveal his glistening pectorals. He pulled his arms back in and shivered. 

“It’s a bit chilly in here,” he remarked, eyeing Spock. “You must be freezing.”

Spock parted his lips but was unable to formulate a response. The rolling bile he had previously quenched was beginning to surge inside his stomach. Kirk looked at him curiously. 

“Were you planning on leaving without a goodbye?”

Spock closed his mouth, afraid of what might force its way out if he left it open. Kirk did not seem reproachful, but he did seem confused. Apparently the night had not affected him in quite the same way as it had Spock. Kirk cast his eyes downward and a small smile creased his placid face. 

“I’m not sure you should leave just yet, anyways.” He met Spock’s eyes. “I believe those are my pants.”  

Spock glanced downwards. Indeed, his pants stopped a few inches before where they should have, and the waist felt oddly loose. Blood rushed to his cheeks. He looked up to meet the kind green eyes and the world began to blur and spin and bleed into itself. Kirk became a glowing golden eidolon smiling warmly at Spock from the end of a dark and twisted tunnel. Then the world collapsed and Spock was kneeling with one hand on the floor, retching a thin, acrid bile onto Kirk’s carpet. 

“Holy shit,” he heard from the bed. There was a rustle of sheets and suddenly Kirk was kneeling next to him on the floor, wrapped in a loose sheet, watching him empty his stomach. Spock felt a warm hand press reassuringly into his back. 

“Hey,” came a soft voice. “Are you okay?”

Spock coughed and spat out a filmy phlegm. He took a shuddery breath and cleared his throat. 

“I...believe so,” he said haltingly. He pulled himself up to sit leaning on one hand and raised his eyes to meet Kirk’s concerned gaze. And in those deep honey irises he saw a reflection of a memory, a warm and soft and tender memory, and motes of deep emotion trapped in each verdant speck. And something else...something Spock couldn’t quite identify, jumping like static between those pupils. 

“This is my fault.”

Guilt. That’s what it was.

“I shouldn’t have pushed you,” Kirk continued. Spock shook his head very slightly. “Was it the alcohol? I didn’t—”

“My condition is not your fault,” Spock interrupted. “My decisions were, and continue to be, my own.”

Kirk smiled, but the worry did not fade from his eyes. 

“You’re right, of course. I just…” 

He trailed off, drawing his gaze to the floor as if abashed. Spock felt a twinge of disappointment as the visual link broke. There was a silence. Sitting up and crossing his legs, Spock listened to his own breath and tried to normalize his heartbeat. 

Kirk raised his head again and the two shared a hesitant gaze. 

“Do you...regret it?” 

Kirk seemed almost afraid to ask the question. His usual velour of charm had thinned to reveal a doubtful interior. “Are you capable of regret?” he added, somewhat dourly, before Spock could reply. Spock chewed on the inside of his lip. 

“I have found,” he began thoughtfully, “that despite its emotional nature, regret is something I am...often afflicted by.”

Kirk nodded.

“I would not think to doubt you, Mister Spock. I have found you capable of…much more than I could have imagined.” 

He turned his head back to the ground defeatedly.

“But I do not regret this,” Spock continued. 

Kirk looked up in surprise. Spock met the gaze steadily, unwavering despite the shivers of his heartbeat. His face was drawn and pale, but his expression was tender as he looked deep into Kirk’s searching caramel eyes. 

“I do not believe that either of us has made a mistake,” Spock continued. Relief washed over Kirk’s face. “Of course, I cannot speak for you, but—”

He was interrupted as Kirk leaned forwards and kissed him, hand winding around to the back of his head. It was earnest and tender and confused and bitter with bile and sweet as honey all at once. It was chilly and warm and pink and green and golden. Spock felt a pounding of memories as they swelled behind their dam, and this time instead of forcing them back he let them gush out and sweep through the cold metal constructions of his logic and pour down his spine and through his veins with shivery thrill. He remembered joking and trying not to smile and smiling behind his glass and watching Jim know he was smiling and smile back. He remembered playfulness and tenderness and questions and answers and the realization that there didn’t have to be answers to be questions and that there didn’t have to be questions to be answers. And which of them is the question and which is the answer and did it really matter. He remembered cold hands and warm flesh and cold sweat and warm shivers. He could feel gold hair and gold eyes and what used to be under a gold shirt. He remembered, and he was okay with remembering, and it was okay to be okay with remembering. 

Kirk drew back from the kiss with a bashful smile. Spock inhaled deeply and opened his eyes to see Kirk make a wry face, wrinkling his nose.

“Those drinks don’t taste so good the second time around.”

Spock couldn’t stop the corner of his mouth from twisting up into a subtle half-smile. Seeing this, Kirk grinned. 

“You feeling better?” he asked.

Spock nodded, meeting Kirk’s gentle golden gaze with an amiable expression. Kirk slid his hand down and squeezed the back of Spock’s neck affectionately. He pulled his head forward and rested his forehead against Spock’s, pressing their noses together. They closed their eyes in tandem and Kirk exhaled contentedly. 

After what could have been a few seconds or a few minutes, Kirk opened his eyes and looked upwards at Spock. He tilted his head forwards and pressed his lips to Spock’s nose, then pulled his head away with a slow sigh. Spock opened his eyes as well. 

“What time is it anyways?” Kirk asked, removing his hand from Spock’s neck and rolling his arm back in a stretch. 

Spock glanced upwards, considering. 

“Approximately 4:45 in the morning.” 

Kirk’s outstretched arm dropped in surprise.

“Jesus Christ, Spock,” he laughed in disbelief. “Do you get up this early every morning?”

“I do not,” Spock replied, to the apparent relief of his captain. “I slept in unusually late today.” 

Kirk chuckled.

“I see.” 

He looked around the dim room as if expecting dawnlight to pour in from some hidden window. 

“Well,” he said, stifling a yawn, “there’s no point in trying to go back to sleep, I suppose.” 

Turning back to regard the deep shadows of Spock’s dark eyes, his gentle features softened in a smile. 

“We might as well grab some coffee before the shift,” he suggested. Spock inclined his head. 

“You are welcome to do so.” 

Kirk frowned.

“Do you not drink coffee?” 

“Not usually.”

“Fine then,” Kirk said with a smile, “you can introduce me to whatever a Vulcan eats for breakfast at this ungodly hour of day.” 

Spock raised an eyebrow.

“That should prove interesting.” 

Laughing, Kirk lifted himself off the floor, sheet still wrapped tightly around him. 

“All right, let’s get dressed in our own clothes and head out, shall we?”

He began to scoop up the garments strewn across the floor. Spock remained seated, hands in his lap, watching him.

“Jim.”

A shiver ran up Kirk’s spine, and he turned wordlessly to meet Spock’s eyes.

“Can I have your word that you and I…” Spock searched for the right phrase. “That we will be kept...discreet?”

Kirk straightened his back, eyebrows knit in concern. 

“Of course, Spock,” he said sincerely. “I wouldn’t think to breach any trust between us.”

Spock nodded.

“I thought as much. However,” he noted, “in the past, you have had some trouble...restraining your tongue, when it comes to...romantic endeavors.”

“Spock, when have I ever been anything but discreet?” Kirk asked in genuine surprise. 

Seeing Spock’s raised eyebrow, he grimaced. “Actually, I see your point. I may have to work on that. But I will do my best.”

“I am certain that will be sufficient,” Spock said with a faint smile. He rose so he was level with Kirk, who handed over a crumpled pair of pants. Spock took them, letting his eyes drift around the room. They caught on the pair of shot glasses by the bed, still filmed over with a dark, sweet liquid.

“What was that drink called again?”

Kirk glanced up at him curiously.

“The one you gave me last night,” Spock clarified.

“Oh, ah…” Kirk looked back at the glasses as well. “I think that was some of the bourbon Bones gave me for my last birthday.” He looked back at Spock. “Why do you ask?”

“It was not altogether unpleasant. In fact, I might like to try it again sometime.”

Kirk smiled.

“I’m sure that can be arranged.”


End file.
